


Must Have Own Vehicle

by lilacsigil



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, Trans Female Newt, job search
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsigil/pseuds/lilacsigil
Summary: Newt Pulsifer is going to get a new job. But what kind of job will take references from a Witchfinder? Is Anathema still going to be her girlfriend now that the Prophecies are destroyed? And why is Grace the librarian so mean to her? (Actually, she knows the answer to the last one: it's because of the library computers she accidentally destroyed. But it sounded better as a question.)
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Must Have Own Vehicle

"I don't have a mobile phone," Newt said helplessly. "I can't get an authentication code."

"Really?" The Job Centre woman looked at her with pursed lips. 

"Lots of people don't have mobiles!" 

"Not many of them are looking for work in the computing industry," she muttered, but typed something into her computer – Newt was sitting well back from the desk – and sighed. "All right, I've set you to log in with a security question instead."

Newt managed a weak smile, hoping that the make-up she'd put on for the occasion of her unemployment would make her seem an appropriately humble and enthusiastic job seeker, rather than someone who'd managed to crash the entire accounting system of a major local employer. Unfortunately, it seemed that here, back home, her reputation was preceding her.

The Job Centre woman finished her brisk typing and handed a printed piece of paper to Newt. "That's your details. You're expected to apply for ten jobs in the remainder of this week, and twenty-four every week thereafter. Your benefits will begin to be paid into your nominated account in fourteen to twenty-one days, and your benefits will be reassessed in six weeks' time if you haven't found employment by then." Her dubious look implied that she thought this positive outcome unlikely. 

"Thank you so much!" Newt replied politely and backed away from the woman's desk hoping that the information would be properly saved if she wasn't in physical proximity. Two to three weeks before she saw any money? Well, she was still living at home, so she'd be all right, and good old Dick Turpin didn't take much cash to run, but she wasn't sure how people who had to feed their kids or pay rent managed it. 

She headed to the library and knocked out two job applications on the ancient computers that tolerated her better than most, and thought about saving the world. It seemed really strange that one week you could be having sex with a witch, finding the anti-Christ (nice kid, though), facing down Actual Satan, and then, the very next week, queuing at the Job Centre. Not that she'd enjoyed being a constantly-misgendered Witchfinder working for Shadwell, but the research part of the job had been great. Maybe she should be looking into that instead? 

Library jobs were, unfortunately, looking for qualifications that Newt didn't have, so she sent out another application before the computer started to make a strange groaning noise and she thought she'd better not push her luck any further. Grabbing a copy of the local newspaper – mostly real estate ads, but maybe there'd be jobs in it – she headed out the door, to the poorly-hidden relief of the librarian at the desk.

"Bye, Grace!" Newt called.

"Don't make us have to ban you again, you budget-ruining piece of shit!" Grace called back, with a professional smile that did not reach her eyes in the slightest. Newt would have taken it personally if she hadn't heard Grace speak like that to other people; though she was enthusiastic and lovely around children.

One of the old men who liked to take a kip in the non-fiction section where Grace rarely went had told Newt that Grace used to be a nun, but that seemed unlikely to Newt. For one thing, Newt would have expected nuns to have more patience with something that Newt really couldn't help, and definitely less swearing. For another, she had seen Grace occasionally swigging from a bottle of the ironically hip Mother's Ruin gin, and that was definitely not something she'd expect of a nun, even if Newt's latest computing disaster had driven her to it. 

Back to Dick Turpin for slightly squashed sandwiches and tea from her thermos, Newt felt like she'd had a productive morning. If she was being completely honest – which she definitely wasn't – she would have pointed out that the number one reason that she'd been out of the house was to avoid the calls from Anathema. Yes, Anathema was amazing, the most beautiful and thrilling and terrifying person Newt had ever met. Yes, she had pulled Newt under the bed for sexual purposes, and hadn't been in the slightest surprised or bothered that Newt was trans, and Newt had never even dreamed of meeting someone without having That Conversation. Yes, she was smart and brave and daring and had helped stop the Apocalypse. 

But Newt couldn't get over the feeling that Anathema didn't think that she, Anathema, had true freedom of choice. Either that, or all the people without the benefit of the prophecies were like the goombas in Mario, wandering back and forth on their pre-determined paths. Those bloody prophecies! Newt had tried to confide in Madame Tracey about it – she seemed a better bet than Shadwell, anyway – but she'd just chuckled and told Newt that if it weren't for the prophecies she might never have got up the nerve to make a move on Anathema.  
Shadwell went as far as an elbow to the ribs and an awkward, "Witches, eh, lad?" and that was more than enough for Newt. The Job Centre every day for the rest of her life suddenly seemed preferable to another minute working for Shadwell. 

Newt finished her sandwich. Right, then. Grace the librarian probably wasn't going to let her back in today, so she'd better go with the newspaper instead. She flipped the paper open to a random page and, after scanning past the fifteen pages of ads for monstrously expensive flats described as "cosy" or "neat", found the classifieds. 

_WANTED! SPECIALIST COURIER!  
To deliver rare and unusual items of little mortal value. Wages indeterminate. Hours variable. Must have own vehicle._

A job that described items in terms of "mortal" value sounded like the kind of job that would take references from a Witchfinder. Definitely something Newt could handle. Even better, the phone number at the bottom was a landline. She hoped they didn't want her to have a van. 

There was still a phone booth outside the library, so Newt popped in there. The glass was crazed, the phone was covered in a weird sticky gunge and the keypad was wobbly, but it still worked. 

"Hhhhhhhhhh," said the voice at the other end of the line. 

"Good afternoon? I'm, uh, calling about the job? In the paper?" Newt coughed and tried to sound less tentative. "The courier job."

"Hhhhhhhyes. Good. Delivery. Payment in money." There was a long pause, and Newt was fairly sure she could hear breathing. Something similar to breathing, at least. "5 Babble Lane. Come now."

"On my way!" Newt replied cheerfully and promptly, as she felt a courier would. 

Babble Lane was in the oldest part of town, near the medieval market, and cars weren't allowed. Newt could only see this as a good thing, since the sight of Dick Turpin would hardly put her in good standing as a potential courier. She parked in the Tesco's car park, ignored the usual gaggle of sniggering pre-teens pointing at the car, and, after one last fortifying swig of tea, headed down the dark and soot-stained lane. 

The old buildings leaned in close on either side and the stones underfoot were uneven, but Newt didn't feel scared. It felt more like Lower Tadfield, a strange kind of suspended reality where things were as they should be, even if that wasn't necessarily a positive thing. She wondered if being in the know about the supernatural is what it felt like to be Anathema, sure that everything was unfolding in the way it was meant to do, while everyone blundered around as if they had a paper bag on their heads. Was it different now with the sequel destroyed? Anathema didn't seem different.

Number Five had an ancient hanging wooden sign in the shape of a mortar and pestle, though there was no other sign of it being a chemist's shop, new or old. The door was barricaded with planks roughly nailed into place, but there was a small hatch at about Newt's chest height. She ducked down and knocked on that. 

"Yessss! Coming! Delivery!" came a raspy, high-pitched voice from inside. The hatch flew open and a damp, poorly wrapped brown paper parcel was pushed out. Tucked into the strings was a fifty pound note. 

"Where should I deliver this?" Newt asked, rather taken aback by the lack of a formal interview. 

"Yew tree in churchyard! 2300 hours exactly! Bury in roots!" 

"Any particular churchyard?"

"Doesssssn't matter! Hhhh! Take job!" 

"Yes, I'm taking the job! Thank you!" Newt picked up the parcel. It was lighter than she expected, and much colder. "Is there any chance you could fill in my Job Centre form before you…" 

The hatch slammed shut. 

"Right then," Newt said, cheering herself up. At best, she had a job. At worst, she had a task and fifty pounds. She checked the money carefully, but it did seem to be a genuine, if somewhat soggy, banknote. "Wet spends as well as dry," she said out loud, feeling that this should be an aphorism, even if it wasn't, and walked back out of the lane towards Tesco. 

Through the afternoon and evening, Newt had twisted into a ball of nerves trying to guess whether "2300 exactly" meant the time to put the parcel in the hole in the tree roots or the time to start digging, but she decided on the former. So ten p.m. found her carrying her dad's edging spade and wearing his wellies, in the churchyard of St Uncumber. There was an old yew tree there, leaning heavily to one side, with space around it to dig. Handily, there was also a big auto accessories store right opposite, with outdoor flood lighting so bright that it also lit the churchyard. Even though Newt was in the shadows she had no difficulty seeing what she was doing. 

The ground was dry and crumbly in late summer, and despite constantly hitting tree roots, Newt soon had a neat hole dug and ready for the parcel. The parcel itself hadn't warmed up in the slightest, despite sitting on the front seat of Dick Turpin on a late summer afternoon. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" came a loud voice from outside the fence. Of all people, it was Grace the librarian. She was wearing a nun's habit, only with bright red high-heeled boots on her feet.

"Making a delivery?" Newt picked up the shovel then awkwardly put it down again so that Grace wouldn't think she was threatening her.

"You've got the parcel? Well, give me it," she demanded, holding out her hands. 

"No! I've got my instructions and I'm sticking to them!" Newt shuffled backwards a little bit. The ground was uneven and catchy with tree roots, so with any luck Grace wouldn't make it any closer in those weirdly kinky boots. 

In fact, Grace wasn't putting a finger over the fence, despite her angry gesticulation. "You're here too early! The delivery wasn't meant to even happen until eleven! Trust you to screw it up just like you messed up three! Three! Library computers!"

"Don't hold back!" Newt muttered, feeling oddly safe in the churchyard.

"Hand it over! This is my mission and I'm not going to fail at it!"

"Why are you telling me this?" Newt asked, not moving an inch closer. "And what kind of nun wears shoes like that anyway?"

"Satanic nun, Chattering Order! We say what's on our minds." Her shoulders fell. "Actually, I'm the only one left of my order. After the fire, well, the heart just went out of things. I heard the former Sister Mary Loquacious runs a corporate retreat centre there, these days. Ah well, all works flow to the Dark Lord, that's what I say."

Honestly, that made a lot more sense to Newt than anything else about Grace. "Should I call you Sister? Are you a nun and a librarian?"

"Call me whatever you like, but I know if you've got that parcel, you've Seen Things."

Newt could hear the capital letters. It was also exactly how Newt described certain recent experiences. "So I've Seen Things. Sure. Everyone's Seen Things recently."

"No, no. Everyone's seen things, but not everyone's Seen Things. And it's a busy time, what with the big reorganisation downstairs, the Apocalypse not happening, all of that." She watched Newt closely, her face cast into dramatic shadow by the backlighting from the auto accessories store. 

"Apocalypse? Gosh! Scary!" Newt opened her eyes wide, but Grace wasn't fooled. 

"Hah! I knew it. Parcel. Give it. Now."

"No!"

"It's demonic work, you don't want to do demonic work, do you?"

"You just told me you're a Satanic Nun! It's much more likely that you're doing demonic work! Besides, I met a demon. He wasn't so bad."

Grace bared her teeth, which was honestly terrifying. "Hand it over."

"You can't come in the churchyard, can you? All I have to do is wait another ten minutes and I can make my delivery."

"Right, then." Grace stomped off down the street, her ankles wobbling alarmingly in the high heels. Newt thought she should feel better with Grace gone, but that was a purposeful walk. She must have a plan. 

Newt looked at her watch. The hands were stubbornly refusing to speed up: there were still fifteen long, long minutes in which Grace could come back and do…whatever it was she was definitely planning to do. 

What Grace was planning, it turned out, was to come back with a fistful of darts from the nearest pub. 

"Oh no, what are you going to do with those?" Newt asked, her voice getting high with panic.

"Drive you out of that goddamn churchyard!" Grace threw a dart and it hit with a heavy thunk in the main trunk of the tree, just to the right of Newt's hand.

Newt shrieked and dodged left, skidding to a halt as she came too close to the fence. Grace grabbed for her arm but missed and Newt backed up again. The churchyard seemed smaller by the moment. 

"Give me the parcel!" Grace shouted and readied another dart.

"No!" Newt yelled back. What was meant to be a swift leap back behind the tree turned into a massive sprawl on the ground, but it was still enough for the next dart to go over Newt's head and spark against something stone instead. "Stop! Stop!"

"Are you going to give me the parcel?"

Newt took the opportunity to scramble back behind the shelter of the multiple trunks of the tree. "Nope!"

Grace stalked around the fence until she got a better angle. This dart hit Newt's wellie, but fortunately the thick rubber and Newt's skinny legs meant that the dart lodged firmly in the boot and barely scratched her skin. 

"Ow! Stop it! Why do you hate me so much!"

"Because!" Another dart thumped into the church door as Newt tried to get better cover. "You wrecked three computers!" 

"Not on purpose!" 

Thump!

"You knew it was going to happen! And!" Thump! 

This one caught Newt's sleeve and she dropped the parcel, then dropped to the ground after it. 

Grace stalked back along the fence. "And! You go to all that trouble to become a woman!" She hefted a dart but didn't throw it yet. "And yet you still go by a stupid name like Newt!" Thump!

"Aaah!" The last dart hit the ground next to Newt's hand, and she jumped up, seeing just two minutes left before eleven p.m.. "Well, Sister Grace the Satanic Nun, you know what? It was good enough for Newt in Aliens, and it's good enough for me! You might have pointy weapons but you're no alien and I'm going to outlast you!" 

"Oh?" Grace said, her tone changing. "You're an Aliens fan? Me too!" 

"Are Satanic nuns even allowed to be movie fans?"

The hand holding the darts dropped to her side. "Of course! We're encouraged to follow any interests that promote a) evil or b) knowledge which of course leads to evil. Personally, I like movies, libraries and playing darts." 

"Darts are evil?"

"Played in pubs, dens of sin, etc. I take it back about Newt being a stupid name."

"Well, thank you!" Newt's watch now had one minute remaining, so she sidled out from behind the tree toward the hole that she had dug, chilly parcel in hand. "It's strange to talk to someone who has to say what's on their mind, but I think I'm enjoying it." 

Grace had put the last darts down and was fiddling with her boot, so Newt felt pretty safe to head towards the hole in the tree roots and bend down to put the parcel in it. That was a critical error, as she was immediately hit in the arm by the red vinyl boot Grace had been removing and the parcel went flying up into the air. 

Newt stretched out for it, hampered by the uneven ground and a throbbing arm. Grace reached for it, hampered by only wearing one boot and having to stretch over the fence. And then, out of nowhere, Anathema peddled her bicycle straight into Grace and knocked her to the ground. 

Newt still fumbled the catch, but she at least managed to keep the parcel inside the churchyard and kick it into the hole in the tree roots. A bright, bluish light shone out of the ground for a moment, then the pile of dirt fell in on it and it was gone. 

"Anathema!" Newt shouted.

"Are you okay?" Anathema shouted back, picking herself and her bike up off the ground.

"Ow," Grace muttered, and stayed put on the pavement. 

Newt gestured frantically at Anathema, "Quick, come into the churchyard! She's a Satanic nun and she can't come in!"

Anathema hefted her bike over the fence and followed, giving Newt a quick kiss on the cheek. "Wow, such timing!" 

Newt frowned. "I thought you got rid of the next prophecy book. Didn't you say you were sick of being a professional descendant?"

"Oh, that, yeah, I did. Actually, I just caught the train up to see you since you're not taking my calls. And your dad said you'd taken a shovel and gone to a church?"

"But you somehow came to this one?" Newt still felt uncomfortable. 

"Sweetie, no, I've been riding around town for an hour asking about Dick Turpin sightings. Everyone at the pub up the hill was very helpful, with the pointing and laughing. It would have been a lot easier to find you if you just had a cell phone, but I guess that's part of your charm."

"Um. Yes?" Newt replied, shocked at being considered to have charm. "Um. Thank you!" In a fit of apparently-charming, she threw her arms around Anathema and kissed her back, which Anathema responded to most eagerly. 

"Hey!" Grace shouted. "Can I have my boot back?"

"You tried to kill me with darts!" Newt argued. "And you lied to me! I thought your Order had to say whatever was on their mind!"

Grace shrugged. "We do! It doesn't have to be true, though. We are Satanic nuns, after all. Boot, please."

"Are you going to throw it at her again?" Anathema asked, looking fierce. "Because she's my girlfriend and I won't put up with it." Newt was feeling a bit melty inside at that.

"No, she delivered the package, didn't she? Nothing I can do about it now." 

Newt threw the boot back over the fence. Grace hobbled over to it, crankily, wiggled her foot in and zipped it up. 

"But I know you're an official messenger of Heaven and Hell now, Newt Pulsifer, so don't think you're going to able to avoid me forever."

"See you at the library, then!" Newt said cheerfully, just to see Grace wince. Once Grace had stomped away with a very rude gesture, Newt turned to Anathema. "You really came and found me yourself? No guidance?"

Anathema held up her phone, but carefully out of Newt's reach, just in case. "Only Google Maps! Your town is a total maze! I can't say I'm used to making my own decisions yet, but I really am trying."

Newt grinned. "Well, since I'm a woman of means right now, I'm asking you on a date-"

"How romantic!"

"-to the pub up the hill, to return their darts."

"Not so romantic! But still fun!" She kissed Newt again. "I've never been to a real English pub."

"Well, they'll be happy to get their darts back, at least," Newt told her, and grinned again. An actual date, an official job – according to Grace, at least – and a girlfriend who was here of her own choice would have seemed to much to hope for not so long ago, but tonight, everything was finally going right. 

"Uh, Newt?" Anathema said, sounding worried.

"Yeah?" Newt walked around the tree, dart in hand, to see what was going on. 

The mound of dirt where the parcel had been buried had produced an incredibly ugly blue flower, with a squashed-up little imp face in the centre of it. It opened its toothy mouth.

"Wiiiiiitch! Take me to the Tower of the Golden Turreeeeeeeetsssss! Wiiiiiiitch!"

Newt and Anathema looked at each other. 

"Was this part of your job?" Anathema asked.

"Well, no. No, it wasn't. Want to go to the pub?"

"Sure!" 

They walked off, wheeling the bicycle between them, darts in the basket. The flower imp's shrieks faded behind them as they wandered up the hill. It was a nice night for a date, Newt thought, and who could have predicted that?


End file.
